


As Humans, We Crave Disappointment

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-16
Updated: 2007-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam/Gene slash. For the longest time, all Sam has wanted is to go home. When he takes the opportunity to return to 2007, he discovers that home wasn't where he thought it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Humans, We Crave Disappointment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jmtorres

 

 

Thanks to my beta-reader, aerye, who was wonderful and helped me immensely.

  
  
 _January 29th, 2007_  
  
He has woken in 2007. A new year. Hospital days are long and Sam converses with his mother, the doctors, nurses, and the voices in his head. They say that he's on the road to recovery. He thinks that he should probably agree. He doesn't. Sam finds connection difficult. He's unable to find the right words to explain the sensation that surges through him. Through a month of recuperation, he struggles time and again to make sense of the nagging notions in the back of his mind telling him that this place is wrong, he is wrong, everything is wrong and all he wants is right.  
  
He should have heeded the warnings. He should have realised that he was resistant to coming back because coming back wasn't necessarily returning home. 1973 may not have made scientific sense, but it made instinctive sense. He couldn't think of one solid reason for having taken action, for having forced himself back into a future of clinically bare walls. There must have been one. Perhaps it was fear.  
  
The familiarity of the technological age isn't enough to overshadow his emotional insistence that he would prefer to be out of it. It took him weeks to adapt to 1973. It occurred piece by piece. First his clothes, then his methods, eventually his attitude. He can't simply revert back with the snap of his fingers. Blink three times and pop into re-existence. One Sam Tyler, fully whole. He wishes that some of the reasons behind his inability were a little less human. He could rely upon constructs and circumstances, but relying upon the very heavy sense of loss he's feeling is slightly more difficult.  
  
He had let his hand linger for too long on Gene's arm more than once. He'd often felt an odd sense of pride in Gene's approval. Gene had this way of looking at Sam that knifed him open and left him dazed. There had been occasions when the innuendo between them sizzled with such fury that Sam thought he might combust. They had fought and they had laughed and they couldn't keep their hands off each other, though usually they were clenched fists, and often they left large purple welts. It was volatile, charged and completely invigorating.  
  
He doesn't understand it. He doesn't underestimate it. After a while, he has accepted it. Upon acceptance, he finds himself in a new space. A brave new world. It sickens him to be pining for a man who would rather punch him than want him, ninety-nine percent of the time. And if it were only for the man, perhaps he would try to dismiss the thoughts out of hand immediately.  
  
But it isn't just Gene that lures him back to 1973, with promises of a better life and truer existence. In that time, as archaic as it had felt, his life had a purpose. His knowledge and expertise were needed. He could solve crime with few restrictions, as opposed to having to sit behind a desk, tapping at plastic keys, waiting for permission. Of course, he hasn't had to sit behind a desk for a while. He isn't even sure they're going to give him his desk back.  
  
*  
  
 _November 23rd, 1973_  
  
Sam's alone in CID. He's used to that happening. There's a certain point where all the CID boys trundle off down to the pub, or home to their wives, and he's left in the slowly dispersing haze. He enjoys it, this time to himself in a work environment. It inevitably doesn't last for long. The door opens and it's Gene, in camel-coat and sting-backed gloves. Sam lifts his head and watches him for a moment, knowing he will speak.  
  
"Right. You're still here. Figures. I want that report on my desk by Monday, Tyler."  
  
Sam nods. "It's almost finished."  
  
"Good. You can get up early and do it."  
  
"I'm doing it now."  
  
"No, you're not. You're coming with me."  
  
Sam doesn't have the energy to argue. He catches the jacket launched at his head and follows Gene out of the station, into a Manchester that is crisp and dreary all at once. It's a lazy kind of contentment with which he sits next to Gene at the Railway Arms. This is familiar now, an old friend from school, the kind you'd play conkers with and cheat out of prized possessions.  
  
He sips his second scotch of the night and half closes his eyes, listening to Ray's tales of his latest conquest and trying not to pick up the mental imagery. He drifts.  
  
"Look, I didn't bring you here so that you could fall asleep on me, Tyler."  
  
"Why did you bring me here?"  
  
"Sick of you skulking round the office as if you own the place, for one."  
  
Sam opens his eyes wider, draining his glass. "And for the other?"  
  
Gene doesn't say anything. He shrugs his shoulders. The gesture is majestic, amplified by the coat. Sam turns away and nods to Nelson for another scotch. Nelson hands it to him with a wink and Sam would wink back, but he's not sure he wants Gene to catch him in the middle of what could be construed as a flirtatious gesture.  
  
His head starts pounding. It echoes, as if his skull were entirely hollow. Perhaps it is. With the thumping comes a steady beeping. Sam stops still, straightening in his seat. The sound becomes louder, more persistent, high-pitched and frantic. He concentrates on it, trying to zero in on the muffled voice that accompanies it.  
  
"Oi, Sam. Wakey, wakey. You're not having some kind of fit, are you?"  
  
The beeping disappears. Sam shoots Gene a white-hot glare.  
  
"No. But next time you interrupt me like that, you will."  
  
Gene stares at Sam nonplussed. He takes a swig of scotch and swings off his seat.  
  
"I'm going home to the missus. Make sure you put your brain back in before walking home. Can't have another one of those lying around, getting in Nelson's way."  
  
Sam masks his annoyance and casually raises his head. "See you tomorrow."  
  
"No you won't. It's the weekend. See you on Monday. And remember, you owe me that report."  
  
"When have I ever let you down, Guv?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know. A little matter of a pointed gun and crazed lunatic, but apart from that, only every second Tuesday," Gene replies, pushing open the door and leaving the pub.  
  
Sam half-heartedly smiles and downs his final scotch for the night. Perhaps the sounds will come back in the silence of his room. It's with a feeling of horror that he realises he's not entirely sure if he wants them to or not. They are the key to his returning home. He wants to go home. He has to go home. It's madness that he stay here, wherever here may be.  
  
*  
  
 _February 21st, 2007_  
  
Sam reads everything he can surrounding comas and time travel. The accounts he reads of vivid coma-induced realities often have the ability to sound terrifyingly close for comfort, but he can't shake the feeling that what he experienced was more than a dream. He feels sure that he is not merely mad, that he was not merely in a coma. He was back in time. The belief is ridiculous, filed away in a little box of impossibilities on the right side of his brain. He would prefer it stay there, rather than come out of a nighttime as he gazes up at the hospital room ceiling.  
  
No matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, a persistent voice nags that no mind is capable of supplying so many facets to events and personalities, not even in a heightened state of reality. As much as he prides himself on his attention to detail, he isn't quite capable of creating a resounding arrhythmic heartbeat as a body crashes into his during a hostage situation. He doesn't have the skill for flashes of anger, confusion and joy all in one. He can't imagine all of his senses being awakened just by a casual dip of a head towards his.  
  
Sam's research into time travel expounds three alternative theories. The one that seems to fit is the one that argues that time is not a straight line. It's a mass of randomly connected dots; a cosmic Braille that can only be decoded by those who know the method. His method appears to involve getting run over; or at least, that's what has worked before.  
  
His mother understands why he asks for books about comas. She isn't quite as understanding about the books on time travel. He claims a resurgence of interest in science fiction from watching daytime reruns of _Blake's 7_. He's not very convincing. He writes up a list of things he needs to look into, once he has the ability to scour through police records. He's asked Maya once or twice, but she's busy, acting DCI, and he thinks she feels misplaced guilt for his accident. Conversations are always strained between them. What was once a passionate love is now dispassionate and uncomfortable regard. It's not her fault. It isn't his. Most relationships wouldn't be able to survive months with one of the participants out of action, and theirs was already struggling.  
  
What little information Sam has gleaned from Maya only adds weight to his belief. She recounts to him cases he worked on and describes the methods by which solutions were sought. His methods. His solutions. It isn't concrete, incontrovertible proof, but it's a start.  
  
In hearing that he is moving from the hospital to a rehabilitation clinic, Sam's interest is piqued. He anticipates more freedom for investigation. It occurs to him that he probably shouldn't be spending his time and energy trying to find out how he ended up in 1973. It occurs to him that it's even worse that he's contemplating methods for getting back. He throws all that occurs to him out of the window and concentrates on what he needs to know and when he needs to know it.  
  
*  
  
 _November 26th, 1973_  
  
It's late afternoon in CID, virtually empty again. Gene and Sam sit next to each other in Gene's office. Sam likes this, this shared time, just the two of them. He can loosen up. He opens his collar, cracks his neck. His St. Christopher's medal glints by the light of Gene's lamp.  
  
"As humans, we crave disappointment. We love to hang our hopes on every whichway and a third, eagerly anticipating the final fall," Gene says, tilting his flask to his mouth and handing it to Sam.  
  
"That's a bleak view of the world."  
  
"It's a bleak world, Sam."  
  
Sam purses his lips. "I don't know. I think I prefer to think of it - of that hope - as optimism."  
  
Gene's laugh is short but forceful. "You've always been the optimistic sort, haven't you?"  
  
"No, not always. I think I'm just learning to be that way now, actually."  
  
"Why?" Gene's tone is casual, but holds a lurking note of interrogation.  
  
"Necessity."  
  
"You have to hope."  
  
"Well, yeah. No one wakes up in the morning and says `I want to hope today', do they? You have to think like that or..." Sam flounders. He raises his hands and waves them vaguely.  
  
"Or what?"  
  
"Or what's the point?"  
  
"I dunno. I just think it's foolish, is all. To pin it all on dreams and the suchlike."  
  
Sam quirks an eyebrow. "What would you prefer, then?"  
  
"A large bottle of scotch and a pack of digestives."  
  
Sam tosses Gene back the flask. It lands in his lap with a small thump. Gene makes no move to pick it up.  
  
"No, I mean for humanity. For the world?"  
  
"To be happy with what you've got, even if it's not perfect," Gene replies. He leans into Sam, their shoulders connecting.  
  
"But then you wouldn't strive for anything better."  
  
"Who says you need to?"  
  
Sam places his hand on Gene's forearm. "Why do you do the things you do, if not for the betterment of society, of Manchester?"  
  
"Because."  
  
"That's it? Because?"  
  
"It's more than enough answer for the likes of you." Gene stares at Sam's hand, but doesn't move. Sam begins to close his eyes, drowsy from scotch and the scent of tobacco. His heart speeds up and he hears, mingled with the staccato beat, the hum and twang of hospital machines.  
  
"Sam, much as I enjoy your company, you're not sleeping here tonight."  
  
Sam ignores him, tightens his grip and tries to stay with the noises; they're a signal, a sign. He's going back, he knows it. 2006, here he comes. 2006, where he belongs. He's got too used to this place and now it's time to go back, time to be himself again.  
  
"Sam."  
  
The sounds fade. He's still gripping Gene's arm. He lets go.  
  
"You know, if I weren't so sure they'd cut you up for investigative purposes, I'd almost definitely send you to a doctor," Gene says, shaking his head, his tongue poking out between his teeth.  
  
"Sorry. Long day."  
  
"That's not just it, is it?" Gene asks, standing up.  
  
"Yes, it is." Sam's tone is dismissive.  
  
"No. It isn't." Gene's gaze is relentless. He's trying to read Sam.  
  
Sam takes a deep breath. He attempts to get his mind into a working order. He can't handle interrogation right now.  
  
"What do I have to do to get you to believe me, Gene? Because I'll do it. I'll do it times a hundred, all in one day."  
  
"What I have in mind would kill you after nine," Gene says. He steps back and away from Sam, waving his hand in dismissal. It might mean something else.  
  
*  
  
 _March 16th, 2007_  
  
He decides he should at least try to see this time for what it is. The news reports aren't overwhelmingly encouraging. He isn't sure where he rests when it comes to being an important and productive member of society. Sometimes he thinks he's just being childish. He's bored, so he wants to go back to the car chases. As immature as Sam admits he can be, he knows this isn't it. He genuinely misses those he left behind. It feels strange to say it; it rolls off his tongue with weight. His friends in 1973.  
  
He misses scotch. It's odd. He was never much of a drinker before. He was often acutely aware that he was always on duty. But he misses the taste as much as he misses the sensation, and it burns away at him. He misses everything; from his dingy flat, to his reel-to-reel, to items he never wanted but made do with anyway.  
  
He doesn't let his longing show when his mother talks to him. He doesn't scream when the pain gets too much. He works at making himself stronger, at acclimatising to his new situation, all the while plotting to leave it at the next available opportunity.  
  
In conversation, he is always falsely optimistic. He pretends to let down his guard and show joy. It seems he learned something from having to pretend to be sane in an insane time, even if he wasn't always that successful. The thought of being able to go back with a measure of freedom is what excites him. No longer will he be trapped. At least, not in the way he was before. Perhaps in others. But he won't be confused as to the why and wherefore. These things he will know, because he would have made the choice.  
  
He has been methodical in his approach. He has trawled through archives, examined paperwork. He has found a report he wrote; his handwriting, his signature, dated June 12th 1973. It's the proof he needs. Now he is positive. Now he knows that he was relying upon his instincts for a reason. A year and a half ago he would have laughed, called the entire thing pretty fiction, continued organising his schedule for the weekend. Now, he believes it; lives by it.  
  
He's not even going to attempt to explain it to his mother or Maya. There is no one he can take into his confidence. In one fit of terror, the thought that there is no going back grips him and he thinks he might try to track down Annie. She would listen to him, he knows. She would listen to him, recognise him, kick herself for never believing in him. He couldn't do that to her. It would be unfair. He doesn't admit to himself that he's terrified of seeing her again, unsure of what to say or do. He never even said goodbye.  
  
At one point, he's tempted to find Gene, but the temptation is fleeting and flickers away as quickly as it came. He doesn't want to see Gene as an old man. Worse is the consideration that Gene might be gone for good, only a printed name in legend and a series of connected memories to those who knew him. It's a disturbing thought, and one which jars with his constant reminders of a vital man who courses with energy. He knows which Gene he would rather think about.  
  
*  
  
 _December 3rd, 1973_  
  
It's freezing, and they must be mad, sitting on the pavement outside the Railway Arms. They're supposed to be walking home. Sam suggested they sit for a while, try to clear their muddled heads. It would probably work if they weren't still drinking. Sam is in a better condition than Gene. Then again, he didn't have a drink-off with Chris, Ray and Lytts.  
  
"I'm not drunk," Gene slurs. He hands the flask back to Sam, who takes a swig and smiles.  
  
"Never for one second suggested you were."  
  
"But you were thinking it."  
  
"It's the way your words all roll into one once you've almost gone past that point."  
  
"What point?"  
  
"The point of no return."  
  
"I'm beginning to think I've already gone way past that point with you, Tyler. Weeks ago went way past that point. Months."  
  
"Sorry," Sam says, and his voice catches on a chuckle.  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"No, you're right. I'm really not. Couldn't be happier if I tried."  
  
"One of these days, I'm going to thump you so hard, you'll..."  
  
"I'll what?"  
  
Gene shakes his head, slowly. It rolls from left to right in a dizzying haze. "Never mind."  
  
"No. What, Gene?"  
  
"Can't remember."  
  
"Give over," Sam goads, "what was it?"  
  
"I was gonna say, I'm going to thump you so hard, you'll beg me to kiss it all better, but I decided against giving you an open invitation."  
  
The breath is heavy in Sam's chest. "I don't need an invitation, Gene."  
  
"And you're not getting one."  
  
Sam leans in, tilting his head so that their cheeks almost touch. "You don't have to punch me to get me to beg for a kiss, either."  
  
There's the slam of a door.  
  
"Guv? Boss?" Ray's voice calls. "There's been a burglary. I've got the address from Phyllis. If we're quick, we might catch the bastards."  
  
Sam stands, unsteady on his feet. He offers his hand to Gene, who takes it and almost pulls Sam back down in the struggle to reclaim verticality. Sam hopes there's transportation arriving, because there's no way he's driving with Gene in this state. He hears what he at first supposes are sirens. As the sound clarifies, he realises, not sirens, but the noises which have started haunting him almost constantly.  
  
They have to mean something. It can't be a coincidence that they have increased in rapidity. They have increased in persistence. They're calling him, telling him something, luring him back. This could be his only chance for returning to 2006. There might be no other way. He doesn't belong here, he belongs there, in the technogadgetry of high definition, mobile phones and the Internet. He repeats it to himself as a mantra. Maybe if he says it enough times, it'll become true.  
  
It's his responsibility to discover how to make it home, but all he can think of is getting run over again, and the simplicity of that is both ludicrous and dangerous. He was once told he needed to take a definitive step, but that had all been in jest. Still, what more definitive step would you need than one in front of speeding wheels?  
  
*  
  
 _April 2nd, 2007_  
  
He's taken to haunting the Mancunian way. He stands around for a while near the slip road, weighing up his options and trying to decide. Some days he's about to step and loses his bottle, walks away. Some days he doesn't even try. He reasons with himself.  
  
He could well die in 2007 and live in 1973. He could well die for good. He doesn't want to. He's used to sacrificing his life in the line of duty, but in every instance, there is the will in him to survive. He is doing this precisely because he wants to live. He wants to live in a world where he is needed and wanted. It's a combination of many factors. Of physical responses and emotional dependency. Of finding a place and fitting. On one level this terrifies him. He has never wanted anything like this before - similar things, yes, but not this. And on another level, he has never been so sure of something in his life.  
  
He may not continue in 2007, but he doesn't need to. Returning to 2007 is not only a probable impossibility, but a choice towards which he has absolutely no inclination.  
  
He pins his hopes and dreams on 1973. This time, he closes his eyes and steps forward. The impact of steel and aluminium composite hurtles him into the air, until he smashes back down to the ground with a satisfying crunch. There's a blinding flash of pain before everything goes white. There are no flashbacks. No hospital sounds. There's nothing, for a time. Nothing but white light, glorious and commanding.  
  
When he opens his eyes, he's at the construction site. Never before has a dust wasteland looked so beautiful. He gently lifts himself from the ground, checking for bruises, breaks. In doing so he sees familiar leather. His heart thumps steadily against his rib cage as he stands and looks about him.  
  
His grin could not be wider and he bounces from foot to foot, familiarises himself with the tone and feel of it. He pumps his arms a few times in victory, tempted to start chanting like he would if he were at the football. Sam, the winner. Sam, the master of his fate.  
  
He begins walking towards the station. There's a man selling newspapers. He stares at Sam with mistrust. Sam steps forward, his hand brandishing 5 pence.  
  
"Hey, how are you today? All right? Could I have a paper, please?"  
  
The newspaper is thick and weighted in his hand. He pushes his face in close to catch the date in the darkening twilight. December 14th, 1973. A week after he left. Only a week. He doesn't know how that's possible. But then, he doesn't know how any of it's possible. One more confusion isn't too difficult for his mind to comprehend.  
  
*  
  
 _December 7th, 1973_  
  
It's been building, slowly but steadily, until it reaches critical mass. There's no one here but Gene and himself. The only sound is the thrum of the radiators. The lights are dim.  
  
He's tried to say it a hundred times, each time using a different method, but he hasn't found the words. Everything he thinks of sounds ridiculous. In the end, he's decided he's not going to explain. He's just going to tell Gene he's going and say goodbye. The way Gene's staring at him makes that more difficult. If this is it, if this is the last time, he wants to make it a goodbye he'll remember.  
  
"Gene, I'm leaving. I'm not coming back. And I know that this is on pain of death, but I have to. I have to know. I have to feel."  
  
Sam steps forward and pushes close into Gene, running his hands down from his shoulders to his wrists and drags him forward. He brushes his cheek against Gene's, bringing his left hand up and holding it steady behind Gene's head, threading his fingers over his collar to the back of his neck. He presses his lips to soft skin, catching the corner of Gene's mouth.  
  
Gene doesn't rock back and take a swing. He doesn't punch Sam in the gut. He shifts his head until their lips are fully touching and kisses back. Sam's tongue glides over Gene's teeth and presses into the warmth of his mouth. As the kiss deepens, Gene's stubble grazes against Sam's, and it's a surprise, but not unwanted. Gene tastes of scotch and tobacco, and there's an aftertaste of spearmint; a remnant of countless chewing.  
  
It's nothing like Sam expected. He never anticipated Gene to be a willing participant. He never thought that Gene might hold him tight, tilt his head, widen access for the kiss. He never dreamed that Gene would moan into the kiss, his hand an iron claw around Sam's right hand.  
  
When Sam pulls away, there's fear and something else in Gene's eyes, but Sam isn't going to stay to find out what the second emotion is. He can't. He knows that if he stays, he's staying for good, and that's not logical, it isn't right. He's not from this time. He shouldn't be here in the first place. He shouldn't want to be. He walks out of the room.  
  
He takes several more steps out of the station. He travels to the construction site of the Mancunian way, thankful for heavy traffic. He walks into the path of a car. He walks out of 1973.  
  
*  
  
 _December 14th, 1973_  
  
The station is quiet, quieter than he has heard it in a long time. In his mind, it's been a long time since he has been here. He stalks down the corridors, his Cuban heels clacking a rhythm that has the steady beat of glam rock. He opens the doors to CID and pauses in the threshold.  
  
He sees Gene, standing, a ruler over his dominion. Gene, the only person in the half-lit room. Gene's camelhair is in his hand and he looks as if he's about to leave. Sam plants his feet and stares into Gene's eyes, his fingers steady on the wood as he keeps his space.  
  
The shared look is a spark; a singular moment in time in which all stops, all spins, all wanders and wavers and is won. It hits Sam in his solar plexus, twisting him around in knots. Gene brings his brows down in fierce declaration and tosses his coat onto a nearby chair.  
  
"I thought you were going. Never to come back," Gene says. His voice is deceptively casual. His eyes are burning.  
  
"Turns out, I couldn't stay away." Sam attempts to adopt the casual tone, but doesn't succeed. He cracks on the second syllable of the last word.  
  
"Hyde wasn't the place you thought it was, then?"  
  
"Not even close."  
  
"Figured they were nowt but a bunch of boring tossers, but didn't want to say anything to put you off."  
  
"That was good of you." Sam dips his head, moves further into the room. The doors clatter as they swing shut. "I don't know if you want me, Gene."  
  
"Course I want you," Gene says, and he changes position, as if about to move forward. He stays where he is. His eyes are still fixed on Sam's, intense and commanding. "You're part of this team, whether you like it or not. Just where would we be without your insistence on science and all things in their proper places? We need you to keep us in line." He bows his head and his voice is thick with emotion. "I need you to keep me in line."  
  
Sam stares. "You mean that?"  
  
Gene's head whips up and there's fury there, as well as something Sam can't quite pinpoint. "I don't just say things on a whim, Sammy-boy."  
  
"I know you don't."  
  
Sam senses that this isn't the end of it. Gene rocks back on his loafers - constant but small movements escalating his tightly constrained frenetic energy. Sam tenses, every muscle in his body on alert.  
  
When Gene speaks, his voice is low. "Why are you here? Why now?"  
  
"Because I want to be myself, not the person others think I am."  
  
Gene shoves his chin forward, his hands resting by his belt, twitching softly. "I think you're a prick. You're telling me you're not?"  
  
Sam shakes his head. "No, it doesn't work like that. What you think of me and who I am aren't necessarily mutually exclusive."  
  
Gene nods. "Good. Glad you've got that sorted."  
  
Sam steps forward, closing into Gene's personal space; crowding him. His voice is quiet, higher than normal, vulnerable.  
  
"You really want me here?"  
  
Gene nods, an almost imperceptible movement. It's enough.  
  


 


End file.
